


sober

by disorderedorder



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Biting, College AU, F/M, Jealousy, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, Marking, Modern AU, Naked Female Clothed Male, Patrick is a warning on his own, Roommates to FWBs, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 14:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14114043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disorderedorder/pseuds/disorderedorder
Summary: on both sides, that was bad for formwhy do people do things that be bad for 'em?say we done with these things, then we ask for 'em





	sober

**Author's Note:**

> sup IT fandom I wasn't invited to this party but I got a hole in my heart left to fill made by rian fuckin Johnson

Having left Maine after finishing eighth grade hadn’t been your decision, but rather, a mandatory choice you had to make, given your parents’ divorce. While your father had been stuck in Derry, what with his job on the police force, your mother was edging to get out of the town as soon as she possibly could. At the time, the idea had never occurred to you, but it hadn’t taken but a year to realize that the town itself was most likely the cause of their divorce. Something about it felt off to your mother, something she was always vocal about to both you and your father, hence why she was trying to get out of Derry the moment the opportunity struck. Of course, with that opportunity came a choice you had to make, whether to remain behind in Derry with your father, or move down to Manhattan with your mother. Both your parents were offering you incentives for staying with either of them, but ultimately, your mother had won out, and you left Derry, your father, and its residents behind. 

 

The four years you spent in Manhattan for high school were the most eye-opening years you’d ever had in all your life, the chaos and the rush of the big city a complete change from the sleepy little town in Maine. You made new friends that talked you into going out after classes, seeing discounted Broadway musicals over the summer breaks, sneaking into clubs with fake IDs on the weekends, and shopping in the trendy, overpriced boutiques in SoHo. Your mother, having taken up a job in a law firm on the Upper East Side, made enough money to send you off to one of the best schools in the city and provide a more than comfortable living for the both of you. Something about the city changed her; she was less concerned about your curfew, the people you wanted to make friends with, what you did on weekends, perhaps for the sole reason that you were finally out of Derry and into a place where you had the chance to live a real life, with real friends. 

 

But maybe the most shocking thing about it all was your decision to attend the University of Maine in the fall, a year after you graduated high school. You’d used your year off to enjoy New York and every little thing you weren’t familiar with, your friends sad to see you go, but more than happy to see you off, so to say, in that last year. You couldn’t deny that the lifestyle was cushy, and probably exactly what people were moving to New York for, but it had begun to wear on you over the years, and you wanted change. Your mother, while uneasy about your decision to return to Maine, was still willing to let you go, despite her drawbacks. She’d asked a handful of questions about the university, what it was offering to you that you wanted, and so on, but none about why you wanted to go back, since she could know without asking that you were planning to return to Derry. 

 

The truth was, you’d stayed in connection with your old middle school friends in Derry online, mostly via Twitter and Instagram, and you missed them, despite the lack of connection you’d had over the years. While you weren’t the most popular person who had attended the one school in Derry, you were still fairly well-known because of your mother’s fancy law job that required her to drive a good hour to and from work towards the city every day. By default, most people immediately tossed you in with the snobby, well-off group of kids who were no stranger to the blatant clique culture, which was by far worse in such a small town than it was in a bigger city. The thing was, though, you were neither a part of them, nor were you a part of the less well-off kids who lived on the outskirts of Derry, or even the average-income families who owned the small businesses in town. If anything, you were one of the relatively quiet kids who finished their work early and were the teachers’ personal favorites. You didn’t get involved with anyone’s drama directly if you could help it, and you usually turned papers and assignments in early, giving you a step up from the majority of your class. 

 

Before you’d left, most of the friends you’d made insisted you keep in touch with them online, and promised to update you on everything that happened in high school, as though your move to New York was nothing more than an extended vacation. For the most part, they had kept to their promise, despite the fact that many of the people they told you about were people you hadn’t been particularly close to. It was the thought that counted, you knew, and by the time you’d decided to return, you found yourself grateful for the constant updates sent your way. Even though most of your friends were moving away from Derry for college, you knew a handful that were staying close to the area, and some people who you’d attended middle school with were attending the University of Maine with you. The good thing was, housing in Derry was cheap, and your mother was willing to pay for that over on campus housing. Another good thing about her job was the fact that you were getting a weekly allowance as well as your phone and rent covered throughout college, meaning you didn’t necessarily  _ need  _ a job or a roommate if you didn’t want them. 

 

Still, the day that you had moved into your modest condo in Derry had left you lonely in your new home, and your mood shifted from not wanting a roommate at all to considering one for the sole purpose of not having to come home to an empty condo all the time. As a result, your Craigslist ad was put up within three weeks of the start of the school year, and while you had a few initial offers, none of them showed up to your pre-move in meetings. It had discouraged you a bit, despite the fact that you knew it was probably a little late to be figuring out something like roommates when the school year was just starting and things were a little crazy. By the time a month passed, you were willing to accept almost anyone, barring non-college students and escaped convicts, which may have been what tossed Patrick Hockstetter your way. 

  
He was the sixth person to contact you via your ad, which had surprised you at first. Of all the people you remembered from before you moved away, he was the last person you thought would be willing to shack up with you, especially since the last time you remembered seeing him, he had a group of friends you were almost certain he lived with anyway. What was even more shocking was the fact that he was actually attending college. Even though the two of you were in the same class, everyone knew he’d been held back twice in the sixth grade, making him about two and half years older than everyone else. You didn’t know him very well, mainly because you made an active effort to stay  _ away  _ from him and his little group of bullies. Luckily for you, they never found much to pick on you for, other than the odd shove in hallway here and there. Being the smart, quiet kid would, by any other means, would make you easy bully bait, but you weren’t quite sure why they didn’t pick on you more. It was a relief, however, since it allowed your middle school years to pass by peacefully and uneventfully, for the most part. 

 

Patrick Hockstetter had been something of an oddity in middle school, what with him being fifteen when the rest of you were thirteen, getting his temps when the rest of you were still having to hitch rides with older siblings and parents. He was at the center of more rumors than you could keep up with, from sneaking into college parties to selling drugs to dating high school girls. Of course, there were more outlandish ones than those, like his fascination with fire, the fact that he was most likely the one who burned down the Taco Bell in the next town over, and the rumored bonfires that were always held on the Hockstetter property just outside town. Obviously, the rumor mill was what it was, but it didn’t stop you from feeling some truth about a few of them. Half the girls in the class had a thing for him, and the other half were too scared of him to talk about him in school. You fell somewhere between indifference and fear, mostly because you liked not being harassed for homework answers in the halls. 

 

When he’d met you at the local coffee shop, you’d been surprised by how much he’d changed, despite having seen him here and there on Instagram. His waves of dark hair had grown past their typical shaggy mess from back in middle school, to nearly past his shoulders, an inky black in stark contrast to his pale skin. He’d taken to wearing a bit of eyeliner around his stormy, blue-grey-green eyes, but taken no measure to conceal the dark circles under them. He’d gotten a few piercings since middle school, an industrial bar through his left ear along with a few other normal ear piercings, as well as an expensive-looking silver septum ring. The sleeves of his worn denim jacket were pushed to his elbows, revealing an array of tattoos snaking up his arms, a mix of occult designs, dying flowers, witchy things, and classic skulls woven in here and there. He’d greeted you with a smirk, as well as a stack of twenties banded together with a tied leather bracelet tossed on the table before you. You didn’t want to ask where he’d gotten the money from, but luckily, he was willing to explain for you. 

 

Unlike you, he’d been needing a place to live off-campus, since on-campus housing was too expensive for his parents to afford, but he wasn’t going to live at home, so he took up making fake IDs and selling drugs to make money. Naturally, you’d been horrified, but you remembered that Derry’s police force was bordering on too lax to crack down on that kind of crime. He had gone on to further explain that he needed somewhere to run his operation where the RAs couldn’t catch him, which, while you could understand, you also didn’t want to be assumed to be an accessory to fraud if he ever was caught. Apparently, your concern was a little too readable on your face, because he’d laughed at you, kicked your shin with his heavy motorcycle boots under the table, and leaned back in his seat, his lanky frame taking up his entire side of the booth. 

 

Ultimately, you’d agreed to let him move in, though you were planning to come up with  _ some sort  _ of roommate contract for ground rules. Living with him proved itself intimidating, to say the least, since you didn’t exactly know how to approach him half the time. Moving day for him had also proved itself a feat and a half, since he’d complained the entire time about moving  _ his own  _ boxes, as well as the fact that you’d taken the master bedroom for yourself. You’d argued that since your mother was paying the rent  _ and  _ you’d moved in first, you’d naturally take the bigger room, but he’d complained about it all the same. It took him nearly a week to actually unpack, and another week to begin warming up to you. Some of it was a little unnerving, mostly his staring, which lasted longer than a normal person’s and appeared to be a little hostile, due to his resting face. You noticed he had a tendency to glare if he was focused on something, or just staring, but the moment you wanted to talk, he was all smirks and grinning.

 

Another thing about him that had changed since middle school was the name he was going by, which, at first, didn’t make sense to you. He was going by Trick now, for the most part, and the most he’d explain about that to you was that that was the name his clients called him. A part of you wondered if it was also to distance himself not only from his past, but his old gang as well, none of whom were attending school with either of you. You were still allowed to call him Patrick, but you noticed that he would really only respond to it if you were angry or if the situation was serious enough. Otherwise, he didn’t acknowledge your presence until you corrected yourself. 

 

Unsurprising, however, was the fact that he seemed to  _ never  _ go to class, instead choosing to put in the minimum amount of in-class hours as possible, and getting homework, papers, and test answers from his ‘sources,’ who you suspected were his more secretive clients, the ‘good kids’ who still went around seeking drugs to take the edge off. He had two phones, classic dealer style, one being his personal phone, and the other a cheap TracFone with a broken screen and held together by a cracked navy case and silver duct tape. That phone never left his side, and he always seemed to be stepping out of the room to take calls on it, and his clients showing up roughly an hour or so later to pick up what they’d bought. You allowed him to run his semi-shady business out of your condo, so long as he was smart about it and you didn’t have to come back to the Derry police turning the place upside down. 

  
Because of your roommate contract, he never brought people home, and sometimes when you came back from your classes, especially on Fridays, he wasn’t always there, instead having chosen to go out to meet whichever friend with benefits that was his flame of the week. It was always someone different and rarely the same person twice after their allotted time was up, which got the rumor mill working quickly. You, of course, got asked the most about it, since most people were too scared to ask Patrick himself, but you could offer little information about it since you never saw him and he never told you about it. A part of it all, no matter how much you hated to admit it, was a little jealous, maybe for the sole reason that he always seemed like a ghost in your condo, either shut up into his room or out dealing, or the rare times he came out for food you brought home. Your message thread with him mostly consisted of asking him whether or not he wanted anything for dinner, if you needed to leave the door unlocked for him that night, and if he wanted anything from the store. His answers were usually one-worded and while you liked to think it wasn’t his intention, they came off a little cold. 

 

As busy as the rumor mill was about your roommate, the attraction to him was equally measured, and to say you weren’t a part of that group would be a lie. Patrick had filled out a bit since middle school, nowhere near as stacked as the football players, but he was less of a beanpole now, leaner than he had been, and just enough muscle now to make his lanky frame less awkward. You knew just as much as anyone, though, that the real selling point was his classic bad boy appeal, from the hair to the piercings to the tattoos to the shady business on the side to his sleek black and silver Ducati motorcycle. The singular helmet he had for it was some sort of custom design, made to resemble an animal skull with huge, shining silver canines and a mouthful of pointed teeth, horns, and razor-sharp looking edges. The protective coverings over the eyes were mirrored to obscure his eyes, giving him the appearance of some otherworldly demon who tore around town to meet his clients or his friends with benefits, depending on the day and time. 

 

Now, the Friday before the second quarter begins, finds you holed up in your room, finishing a paper not due for another three weeks. It helped take the stress of writing papers at the last minute off your shoulders, and let you sit back and watch the rest of your peers stressing out over the same papers the week they were actually due, while you could relax. Most of your professors were grateful for a student willing to go above and beyond, so much so that they accepted your early work as soon as you wanted to turn it in. Besides, reaching the required word count for you was no issue, making papers in particular a breeze. 

 

You finish up the last paragraph of your paper, rounding it out to just over a hundred words more than the required word count, and click out of Docs the moment you’re done. This paper, for some reason, had been dragging more than others, which made the moment you finished it out all the more satisfying. As you stand to stretch your legs, you glance outside, the darkening sky nearly as dark as the town. Most of the residents in Derry don’t venture out past nine, unless, of course, they’re Patrick and don’t care about the curfew. There’s been no sign of him since the text he sent you earlier, which simply read, “going out.” You’ve gotten enough of the same texts to know what it means, and even when you had first started getting them, it didn’t take long to figure out the meaning. If it’s like any other weekend, you don’t expect to see him back until Sunday afternoon, hungover and in need of Advil and some sort of greasy fast food to take the edge off. 

 

The food you picked up earlier for yourself sits unprepared in the kitchen, since you knew you’d finish your paper early enough to still eat at a decent time. You busy yourself making dinner, and you end up linking your laptop to the Bluetooth speaker to cut the silence. Still, it doesn’t make the lonely feeling go away, and you begin wondering if your current roommate situation made the issue worse instead of better. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t wish Patrick was around more often, especially on weekends, and if you wondered why he had so many hookups all over the campus. Jealousy isn't something you usually find yourself bothered by, but with Patrick, there’s some sort of exception, you guess. Ignoring the ugly feeling blooming in your chest, you pull the pasta off the stove before it burns and dump it into a bowl, settling down on the couch with your laptop to finish the last season of your show on Netflix before your shower. 

 

You lose yourself in the last three episodes of your show, three hours passing by without so much as a car outside, but as soon as you close your laptop, you hear the familiar roar of Patrick’s Ducati from down the street. Your brows furrow in confusion, sure you’re hearing things, since he’s  _ never  _ home this early. Outside, you hear him pull up to the condo, swearing, his heavy boots stomping up the walkway and up the stairs. You have the instinctive urge to retreat to your room and let him ride out this wave of anger alone, but your curiosity is too strong to do that just yet. The front door swings open, nearly denting the wall behind it, as your angry roommate storms in, helmet tucked under one arm, the other mussing his hair as he mutters to himself. 

 

“Something wrong?” you ask, as lightly as possible. 

 

“Yeah, everything,” he snaps, tossing his helmet onto the couch and brushing past you to the fridge, the unmistakable sound of glass bottles hitting each other as he looks for a drink. He slams the fridge shut, drinking from your single bottle of Hennessy, wiping the back of his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket when he comes up for air.    
  
“Fuckin’ client was late, then the girl I was meeting bailed on me for some fuckin’ frat party on the other side of town, and then I lose my other phone riding home, so yeah, it’s been a pretty fucked-up night for me so far,” he continues angrily as he takes another long drink. “Did you save me any dinner?”   
  
“No, because you said you’d be out,” you reply. “I never get you anything unless you ask.”

 

“Bitch,” he mutters. “Whatever, I’ll just fuckin’ starve, then.”   
  
“I can make you food,” you say, the annoyance evident in your voice, as well as distaste at being called  _ bitch.  _ “Jesus, who pissed in your coffee this morning, Trick?”   
  
He doesn’t answer you, choosing instead to pick through what little food you did have in the cabinets. Eventually, he comes up with a box of cereal, something obscenely sugary, and probably something he had insisted you buy ages ago.    
  
“I thought you said you were going to get food today,” he growls. “The fuck is this?”   
  
“I was, but then when you said you weren’t going to be home, I decided to finish my paper and go tomorrow,” you defend yourself. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you today?”   
  
“I just fuckin’ told you, Sweetheart, weren’t you listening?” he says. “Why do I even bother?”   
  
“Fine, fuck off then, like you always do,” you snap. “And I don't get why you’re so mad about some girl bailing on you. It’s not like you don’t have ten others wanting to hop on your dick anyway.”   
  
“What, are you jealous?” he scoffs, but his annoyed expression doesn’t last long. Instead, he lets the weight of your words sink in, grinning as he realizes what you mean.

 

“You  _ are  _ jealous,” he says, leaning against the counter as he continues to grin at you. “I should have noticed this sooner, huh?”   
  
You’re not sure what you’re more angry at, the fact that he’s definitely calling you out or the fact that he’s so smug about it, but either way, you scoff and begin to make a beeline for your room. Unfortunately, he reaches you faster than you can reach your door, his grip strong as titanium around your wrist.    
  
“Uh-uh, come back here,” he taunts you. “I wanna hear you say it, Baby.”   
  
“Why, because you need the validation?” you reply. “Figures, you don’t feel valid unless someone is getting something from you.”   
  
“Sure, I like the validation, but I also like hearing you admit when I’m fuckin’ right,” he laughs, pulling you right up against him, the metal teeth of his zipper scratching your arm. “C’mon, say it. Tell me I’m wrong, I fuckin’ dare you.”   
  
“ _ Fine, _ you’re right, are you happy?” you snap, untangling yourself from his grip. “Go jerk off in your room or something, you got your validation. I’m sure that’s what you get off to, anyway.”   
  
You push him back just enough to make him stumble, but it’s not nearly enough to put him off balance completely, nor wipe his smug grin off his face. 

 

“You’re mad that I’ve fucked half the people on campus and  _ not you _ ,” he says, sounding amused. “No wonder you made that fuckin’ rule on that roommate agreement, you’re fuckin’  _ jealous _ .”

 

“Would you shut up?” you snap.    
  
“No, actually, I don’t want to yet,” he replies, catching up to you and trapping you against the doorframe of the bathroom. “And I’m not done talkin’ to you.” 

 

“What more do you want, Trick? You got the answer you wanted from me, now let me go,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you reach for the doorknob. Unfortunately, he’s faster than you are, and his hand catches your wrist and traps it against the doorframe. His light eyes bore into yours, almost glowing in the low light, intensified by his smoky dark liner. His smirk is infuriatingly smug, his tongue wetting his lips as he looms over you. 

  
“You wanna know what I want?” he asks, his tone different now, his voice dropping an entire octave. “I want you, under me, screaming so fuckin’ loud that this entire shithole of a town knows who you belong to.” 

 

The hand that’s not holding your wrist grips your chin, his bitten nails digging into your skin, forcing you to pay attention to him. “You hear me, Princess?”

 

“Yeah, I do,  _ Trick, _ ” you shoot back, and before you can get another word out, he leans down, his teeth catching your bottom lip and biting you just hard enough to make you whine. He takes a good few moments to worry your lip with his teeth before he kisses you properly, and even then, it’s all tongue and teeth, sloppy and miscalculated. Clearly, he likes being in control. 

 

“You’re hot when you’re mad at me, you know,” he growls, right against your lips. “You’re  _ so  _ fuckin’ hot when you’re mad.”

 

He’s still holding your jaw in his shockingly strong grip, but he’s let your wrist go, opting instead to rest his hand on your hip, hooking his long fingers through your belt loops. His touch is burning hot, threatening to brand you through your jeans, leave a burn on your jaw. He smells like kerosene and cheap hairspray and gasoline, as intense and unpredictable as the fires he starts.    
  
“You want me to fuck you, Baby?” he asks. “Want me to take you to my room and fuck you till you can’t make it to class Monday? Show you what you’ve been missing?”   
  
He laughs, the sound of it as enticing as it is infuriating, as he leans down to bite you again, this time, enough to draw blood, just enough to taste. You recoil in shock at what he’s done, but he pulls you back, forcing his lips against yours, his tongue licking up the blood he drew. His hand at your waist slips into your back pocket, squeezing your ass as he presses his hips against yours, grinding against you and pulling at your lip with his teeth again. 

 

“ _ Trick _ ,” you whine when he pulls away. “I—”

 

“Uh-uh, try again, Babygirl,” he teases you. “What’s my name, huh?”   
  
“ _ Patrick, _ ” you try, which earns you a low, predatory growl. 

 

“Better,” he says, and in one smooth motion, he lets you go, only to pick you up, letting you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you off to his room. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling at him as he kisses you, letting the soft, silky strands run through your hands. He snarls at you when you pull, and you let up on your grip until he bites you again.    
  
“Pull it harder, Babygirl,” he growls, and you take a handful and  _ pull _ , earning you a satisfied growl from him as he kicks his door open, no doubt leaving a dirty scuff mark behind. He takes two steps inside before he breaks your kiss, tossing you down on his bed hard enough that you bounce once before he’s on you again, pulling at your clothes hard enough to tear them.    
  
Your jeans are the first to go, pulled off your legs in one fluid motion, but not without tearing through the belt loop he had a hold on. You’re too caught in the moment to chastise him for it, and the sound of him ripping right through your top is something else entirely to tear your attention away from your damaged jeans. One of his hands pulls your ruined shirt off your shoulders, tossing the scraps to the floor. You’re acutely aware of him pulling something out of his pocket, but the realization doesn’t hit you until he pulls away from you long enough to let you see the wicked-looking, four inch blade of his knife. His grin is bordering on crazy as he places the flat of it against your sternum, letting you feel the cold metal against your skin.    
  
“Patrick, what are you doing, please don’t cut—” you whimper, but he just laughs, dragging the flat further across your skin, across your stomach, before guiding it back to the front of your bra and slicing through the thick lace of it with one flick of his wrist. 

 

“I’ll replace it, don’t worry, Babe,” he purrs, when he sees your look of disbelief. “But I like seeing you scared.” He pulls your ruined bra from your shoulders, shoving it across the bed as soon as it’s liberated from your arms.   
  
He holds you down by your hips as he runs the flat of his knife across your stomach again, and you force yourself to stay still as he plays whatever game he wants, so you don’t cut yourself on the razor-sharp blade. His teeth scrape across your jawline as he leaves dark marks, no doubt, as a sign of possession. As he reaches the gusset of your panties, he cuts through the flimsy fabric with his knife, tearing the scraps away with his hand and tossing them onto the floor to join the rest of your ruined clothes. You hear his blade snap shut, and the dull thud of it as he tosses it aside. 

 

“Most girls would have run when they saw the knife,” he purrs, his breath hot against your ear. “Glad you didn’t.”

 

“ _ Please _ ,” is all you can manage, and he just laughs in response, grinding his thigh against your cunt, the friction against your clit not enough to satisfy the  _ need _ you have. He pulls away just long enough to see the wet spot you left on his jeans, earning you another low, animalistic growl from him as he pulls at his belt, binding your thighs together as he leans over you, forcing you to bend nearly in half as he finally brushes his fingers against your clit, eliciting a jumbled mix of words from you, mostly his name, interspersed with begging. 

 

“God, you’re a filthy fucking slut,” he growls as he pushes his jeans down to his thighs. “Fucking whore, you were just waiting for me to get pissed off enough one day so I could come home and fuck you into my mattress until you couldn’t move.”   
  
You can feel his cock against your thigh, hard and just as hot as his hands, and the moment you feel it at your entrance, you’re pulling at him, begging him for more as he teases you. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know how vulnerable you are, completely naked while he hasn’t even taken his boots off yet, and just how much power he has over you, but in the moment, all that really matters to you is him making good on his promises.    
  
“Beg for me, slut,” he growls. “Beg for me to fuck you.”   
  
“Please,  _ please, please  _ fuck me, Patrick,  _ please, I need you _ ,” you manage, your words breathless and almost embarrassingly pathetic-sounding, but you know he’ll leave you needy and unsatisfied if you don’t give him  _ exactly _ what he wants. 

 

With a growl, he thrusts inside you all at once, giving you no time to adjust to his size, and with one hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you lightheaded, he pounds you at a relentless, unforgiving pace, his other hand holding your legs up. Every thrust makes you feel like he’s pushing the breath out of your lungs, and you start getting louder as he begins thrusting harder, faster, chasing his own orgasm first.    
  
“You wanted to know what you were fuckin’ missing, this is it,” he snarls. “Usually, I would have made you beg more, but you know me—I don’t like waiting.”

 

He thrusts once, twice more, before his hips stutter, grinding against you as he cums, his chest heaving as he catches his breath, his wicked grin relishing in your disbelief. It’s not the first time you’ve been with someone who was more focused on finding their own release before yours, but the sheer  _ power  _ and control he exudes is something completely new to you. His light eyes are all but eclipsed by his pupils as he unbinds your legs and lets you down, pulling out a moment later. For a second, you think he’s going to leave you without letting you cum, but no sooner has the thought left your mind when he rests one knee on the bed beside you, caging you in with his body as he his fingers find your clit again, rubbing you furiously, bringing you close to the edge at a dangerously fast pace. 

 

“You thought I was gonna leave you here, didn’t you?” he asks, and you can only nod as a few more well-placed strokes shove you over the edge, forcing your orgasm as you let out an embarrassingly loud moan. But instead of letting you down, he continues to stroke you, picking up speed as he forces you to past the point of pleasure and into overstimulation. 

 

“What is it, Babygirl, too much for you?” he taunts. “C’mon, you can cum one more time for me, can’t you?” 

 

_ “Patrick, please, I don’t think I can do it, it’s too m—”  _ you whimper out between breaths, but he cuts you off with a hard kiss, punctuated with a hard bite to your lips. 

 

“You cum for me now, or this never happens again,” he threatens, and pinches your clit between his fingers, hard. Your answer simply by whining something unintelligible, and he returns to stroking you, harder than before, and a moment later, you fall apart all over again, soaking his fingers and his bedsheets. He grins, licking his lips as he watches you catch your breath. You look up at him with glassy eyes, his hair hanging in his face, but not enough to obscure the predatory look in his gaze. 

 

“You on the pill, Babygirl?” he asks, reaching down to stroke your cheek. The gesture is so unlike him that you want to push him away, but you’re too tired to do so. 

 

“Yeah,” you answer, thankful your mother was insistent on you getting on the pill a few  months ago, ever since you’d made the whole college announcement.    
  
“Good,” he murmurs, leaning down to scrape his teeth across your neck, pausing a few times to suck dark marks into your skin. “Because this definitely won’t be the last time this happens.”

**Author's Note:**

> so, if any of you don't wanna take me out for coming to this tag uninvited, come talk to me on [tumblr](http://supremeleaderdaddy.tumblr.com/)


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